Хилари Боннер - Wheel of Fire

The broad-shouldered man attempting solo surveillance faced no such dilemma. He knew exactly what he was going to do, and quickly, whilst Parker was still contemplating his next move, he marched straight into the pub and approached Freddie Fairbrother.

‘Evening, Freddie,’ he said. ‘It’s been a long time.’

Freddie Fairbrother’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. It may have been a long time, but he recognised the other man at once. After all, he’d been a major part of his childhood.

‘You,’ he said. ‘You. What are you doing here?’

‘I’ve been sent to look after you.’

‘But... but, why would... I mean, they told me you’d been sacked...’ Freddie paused as a shocking revelation occurred to him. ‘You haven’t been sacked, have you?’ he said. ‘You’ve been doing his dirty work all the time. Did you kn—’

Jack Kivel put a firm hand on Freddie’s right arm and squeezed with hard sinewy fingers.

‘No, don’t say it,’ he ordered. ‘Don’t say anything we both might regret.’

Freddie stopped talking.

‘I’m going to take you to him,’ he said. ‘That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

Freddie was no longer sure it was at all what he wanted. He was beginning to wish with all his heart that he hadn’t made that phone call in the morning, and that he’d boarded the first possible flight back to Australia, as he had told his sister he would. He’d treated his visit to Fairbrother Fort as a performance, and had almost enjoyed it. He knew he had shown talent as an actor once, long ago. Possibly the only talent he’d ever had for anything. Reality was now beginning to hit with a vengeance. His sister had been murdered. More than likely by the man standing before him, a man he thought he had once known well, but whom he clearly had never known at all. Again he wondered if he might also be in danger. He couldn’t be, though, could he? He was indispensable now, after all, wasn’t he? He just had to do what he was told. That was where Bella had gone wrong.

‘Of course,’ said Freddie.

‘Right,’ replied Jack Kivel. ‘Now, I don’t suppose for one moment you’ve noticed, but you are being followed.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Freddie.

‘So, before we go anywhere, we have to shake off your tail. Can you run?’ Kivel eyed Freddie up and down. ‘You look pretty fit considering your track record.’

Kivel grinned, as if trying to make himself appear likeable. It didn’t work.

‘I can run,’ said Freddie nervously.

‘Good. Now, there’s a cab outside that’s been tracking you, there’s a second man, too, but he was still in Fairbrother House when you came out. I’m hoping he hasn’t caught up yet—’

‘Hang on, I don’t understand why I have to run,’ interrupted Freddie. ‘Half an hour ago I was putting myself up to chair the board.’

‘Yes, and that will happen. We need things to settle a bit, one or two things need to be arranged first, and we can’t risk being followed to where I’m taking you now, can we? Look, I’ll cause a diversion, get in the cab’s way. You turn right out of the boozer, and walk normally for the first block or so, then leg it as fast as you can. St Paul’s is about three quarters of a mile away. Tuck yourself in a doorway or something. I’ll get in a taxi and come and pick you up. Just make absolutely sure you see it’s me before you get in, OK?’

‘OK.’

‘But first, give me your phone.’

Freddie did so.

Kivel slipped it down the side of the seat of his chair.

‘What are you doing now?’ asked Freddie.

‘You are being followed, Freddie, and it would seem almost certain that you were picked up at your hotel at Heathrow,’ Jack Kivel explained patiently. ‘Therefore, there would have been people on your tail when you bought your new phone. These are top cops, for certain. Professionals. Ten to a penny they have your new number, and they’ve already pinged it. Your trail will end here.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Freddie for the second time.

He then found himself watching in amazement as Kivel reached for Freddie’s virtually untouched whisky, took a quick mouthful, and tipped the rest casually down his chin and over the front of his jacket.

‘I will leave first, be right behind me, then take off, fast as you can, yes?’ commanded Kivel, as if nothing untoward had happened.

‘Yes,’ said Freddie.

DC Parker, at the wheel of his surveillance cab, had his eyes fixed on the pub door when it swung open. Out rolled a drunk, who staggered across the pavement and into the road directly in front of the cab. In almost the same instance Parker saw Freddie Fairbrother leave the pub and walk briskly west.

Parker started his engine and prepared to move forwards in gentle pursuit. But the drunk was blocking the way. Parker blew his horn. No response. He wound down the driver’s window and stuck his head out.

‘Get out of the fucking way,’ he yelled.

The drunk was either beyond understanding or didn’t care. He certainly didn’t move. Instead he stared at Parker in a puzzled sort of way, and asked, ‘Are you for hire, my good man?’

‘Move before I fucking make you!’ yelled Parker.

Light seemed to dawn. The drunk took a step back towards the pavement, then fell over. Unless he was prepared to drive over the man, Parker’s cab was going nowhere.

Instead he climbed out and ran to try to help the drunk to his feet, or just drag him out of the way, if that proved to be all that was possible. A cloud of whisky fumes hit him in the face. The drunk seemed comatose. Like a dead weight. And he was not a small man. Parker could not move him. Not easily anyway.

Parker was almost never indecisive, but he really wasn’t sure what course of action he should take. Maybe he should just abandon his cab and try to catch up with Fairbrother on foot. He looked along the pavement. He could no longer see Freddie. But it was after dark, although the street was well lit, and there were pedestrians blocking his view. He decided to take off at a run, and weaved his way along the pavement for 100 yards or so. There was still no sign of Freddie Fairbrother. He gave up, and ran back to his cab. The drunk had gone. Disappeared.

‘Shit,’ muttered Joe Parker to himself. ‘I think I’ve just been had.’

From the moment of Vogel’s road to Damascus moment concerning Jack Kivel, it took just over two and a half hours for Saslow and Vogel to reach the Kivels’ Wrangway cottage. The heavy rain which had hindered their progress along the M4, from the moment they joined the motorway heading out of London, followed them all the way west, but on the M5 the traffic was relatively light.

It was not a pleasant journey, Vogel had been impatient and unusually anxious, and his mood was not improved by receiving a phone call from Nobby Clarke in which she confessed that MIT had lost Freddie Fairbrother. He chose not to share with her his suspicions about Jack Kivel, preferring to wait until he had at least some evidence to back up what was little more than a hunch. He knew only too well what Clarke thought about hunches. And it remained possible that he and Saslow were about to learn that Jack had not been anywhere that day. Let alone popped up to London to commit a murder.

The two officers hurried from their vehicle and stood outside the front door of Moorview Cottage, huddling beneath the inadequate porch in a bid to find shelter, whilst waiting for an answer to their knock. Vogel noticed the Kivel Land Rover was parked outside, but that didn’t necessarily mean Jack was at home, he could be using another form of transport.

‘Who is it?’ called Martha, after what seemed a very long time, from behind the closed, and almost certainly locked, door.